Possession
by caramine
Summary: Just as he had been mine to kill, I should now be dead only by his hand. He was mine. Grimmjow/Ulquiorra, Yaoi, Angst.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach, nor do I intend to. I'm glad I don't have to deal with filler-hating fans, thank you very much.

* * *

_Prologue_

A hollow is born heartless. The wretched remains of a soul, thriving on the lives of his colleagues, his friends and family. His will is no longer his own, but that of what he has become. There is no love in a hollow, nor sorrow.

If a hollow is heartless, then an Arrancar is truly empty. Pulled out, as it were, torn away from the only semblance of self left in him. He has become nothing more than a shell. Nothing more than a tool.

And we Espada are the ultimate tools. Hueco Mundo's sharpest swords; some of us double-edged blades, some of us loyal to the end. Controlled completely by our master, our creator who calls us his children. We were created in his image, and therefore he is our god. We are puppets whose strings are stronger than steel. Our lives are his to do with as he pleases. There is nothing that he does not control.

This is what our Aizen-sama has told us. His word is our law, our judge, jury and executioner. Before, there had never been a reason for me to second guess him. Before, everything he said proved true. He told us that we existed for the sole purpose of serving him, and I willingly believed him. After all, he was the one who rescued me from my pitiful existence as a mere hollow. He was the one who breathed life into me, who gave me human form and clothed me. I was born solely for him, under his watchful eyes.

The birth of an Arrancar is no longer something special, however. It seems every day another Hollow is added to Aizen-sama's family. Espada are by no means required to be in attendance every time a new arrancar was created, but there is little in the way of entertainment to be had in Las Noches, and so it is not uncommon to see Espada gathered for a birth. In truth, I had not meant to be in attendance that day. It was by coincidence that I found myself in the hall at the time. Now I wonder if that is so.

A bright light shone, as is the norm, and suddenly where a hollow had sat, there was a man. A man with strikingly blue hair, and a sharp-toothed jawbone set against his right cheek. Gin handed him a robe as Aizen-sama asked his name.

The man smirked insolently and sneered in reply. "Grimmjow Jaggerjacks."

_Chapter 1_

I was shocked a bit at first, then angered. Never had I seen or heard anyone show disrespect toward Aizen-sama. But Aizen-sama merely smiled slightly in amusement. "Welcome, Grimmjow," he said politely.

But he was forgettable, this new puppet. He held no importance to me, and so I could ignore him so easily. Aizen-sama took him as one of his favorites, as one of his beloved Espada. Still, for the longest time, he was nothing to me. No more than an annoyance. No more than a speck, a tiny fly at the edge of my vision. He was not special in this way; I had eyes for none. I had only duty.

It was duty that led my life; duty showed me where I should walk, how I should speak, what I should do that would be of the most benefit to Aizen-sama. It was constant and unwavering. It was all that was familiar to me, and therefore it was all that was important to me.

Consequently, I could not understand how this new espada could neglect the duties that Aizen-sama set for him. Could he not see that Aizen-sama would not have commanded him unless it was important? Was he blind to the disorder, the foolishness and anarchy that he spread with each of his acts of insubordination?

His rebellious nature was infectious; although few of the other Espada were foolish to the point of outright defiance, as he was, the atmosphere of Las Noches had taken a definite shift. Arrancar were quicker to question Aizen-sama's dictatorial decisions, but they would never act against him. They would criticize him when they thought he could not hear, but they would never say anything to his face. None were brave enough. With the exception of one.

At each meeting I watched as he questioned Aizen-sama's authority. He was careful with his words – always, he was argumentative and uncooperative, but he seemed to recognize there was a line he should not cross. He ridiculed, but he did not mock. He protested, but he did not refuse. He danced carefully along the border between difficult and dismissible.

Often I wondered why Aizen-sama bothered with him. He had shown no exceptional physical or mental abilities that I had seen, besides being perhaps slightly faster than the average arrancar. And yet he had earned the rank of _sexta_, only two seats below me.

He was irksome, but easy enough to push to the back of my mind. As long as he did not interfere with my duty, I could ignore him with ease.

It was when he defied Aizen-sama that he became my enemy.

Not long after he made Grimmjow an Espada, Aizen-sama decided that it would be best for both himself and the arrancar to maintain a policy of utmost secrecy. The implications of his decision were clear; arrancar were not permitted to enter the human world unless they had explicit orders from Aizen-sama himself. It was irksome to some, yes. They had been inconvenienced; they felt that they had lost rights they were entitled to. But they did not dispute Aizen-sama, and they did not enter the human world.

_He_, however, seemed to decide that this order excluded him. In any case, it was not a surprise when I happened to come across him returning from that very dimension from which he had been banned.

"What do you think you're doing?" I demanded upon seeing him step out of his portal.

He turned sharply to face me, a look of terror briefly crossing his features. He had not expected to run into me so soon upon returning, of course. That was good. It meant I had the element of surprise.

"Oh," he said, visibly relaxing. "Well, if it isn't Mr. Cuatro." He smirked as though he though himself dreadfully clever.

"I will not repeat myself again," I said sharply. "What do you think you are doing?"

"Oh, lighten up," he whined. "You think it really matters if I take a little trip to the real world every now and again?"

"Aizen-sama believes it does."

"_Aizen-sama_," he sneered. "Do you really think he knows what he's doing?"

"Do not question Aizen-sama," I said icily. "Or would you rather that I report you right now?"

His derisive sneer fell a bit, if only to be replaced twofold. "Why don't you fight me?" he goaded. "If you beat me, you can tell ol' Aizen-sama anything you fucking want."

I stiffened as his hand reached for the sword hilt at his waist. Quickly, too fast for his sluggish brain to perceive, I stepped up to him and grabbed his wrist, even as his hand closed around the hilt.

"Do not think of fighting me," I ordered him coldly.

He chuckled scathingly. "Is Aizen's little favorite afraid to get his hands dirty?"

"You misunderstand me," I corrected him. "I merely meant that you would not be worth the time it would take to kill you."

His eyes twitched, and his smile faded as he sized me up. "You think you're so high and mighty," he spat at me.

"Need I remind you that I am two ranks your superior, _sexta_?" I asked, putting a scornful emphasis on his title.

He was no longer smiling. Now, he was furious. His eyes glared at me angrily through narrowed eyelids, his brow furrowing in rage. I had insulted him, and he knew that I was right, no matter how he played his hand.

I waited until I thought he had begun to cool down, then released his arm and moved to walk past him. I had hardly taken a step when he lunged at me. He struck at me with surprising accuracy, his blade zinging angrily through the air. He had aimed to kill me. But he was slow. Far too slow to even scratch me, a fact I demonstrated not only by dodging his meager attack, but also by completely disarming him in the same instant. Both his arms pinned behind his back with only one of my hands, his sword lying at his feet, out of his reach. He had lost.

And yet, he laughed. Scornfully, triumphantly. He turned his head so I could see his sneering grin, his teeth unnaturally sharp.

"Does defeat amuse you, trash?" I demanded.

"Heh," he scoffed. "I got you to use your hands, didn't I?"

I stared at him in mild shock, wondering what he meant.

"I've seen you fight," he elaborated. "You only ever use your hands if your opponent is at least on your level or stronger." His grin became maniacal, almost hysterical. "I'm as strong as you are, Ulquiorra."

I bristled at his casual use of my name. I was his superior; how dare he address me so nonchalantly? How dare he presume to place himself on my level, when he had seen not even a fraction of my true strength? He had been sorely misguided if he had thought he could possibly match me.

"It is unreasonable to expect me to engage in any fight without the use of my hands, _sexta_." I spat his title at him. "I only required hand one to disarm _you_ just now. There is a reason that Aizen-sama made me his fourth espada, and you his sixth. I am far stronger than you could ever hope to be."

He had dropped his sneer, and the victory in his eyes had changed to a murderous glare. He intended to kill me. I wouldn't stop him if it was a battle he wanted. But he could see now that what I said was true; I was stronger than him, _much_ stronger. He stood no chance against me, not alone. He could try to fight me all he wanted, but it would only end in his death.

When I released him, he said nothing, and after picking up his sword, he strode away without so much as a glance back.

It was after that incident that my view of him began to differ. The transformation was a gradual one, but the effects were no less apparent because of it.

I began to hate him. He was disrespectful. He was rude. He was loud, and detestable, and I wanted him to die. No, I wanted to kill him. I wanted his blood on my hands. I wanted to watch as his eyes glossed with death. Never had I so wanted anything as I wanted that.

I wanted to listen as he breathed his last breath.

Every time I saw him, every time I heard his voice, my desire to kill him grew a little more. I restrained myself from showing my hate. I would not make any sign that I felt differently about him than about any other arrancar. But he _was_ different, because he was so abhorrent, so loathsome, because I wanted to kill him when I merely tolerated the others. His was the throat I wanted to tear. His were the lungs I wanted to crush.

He was my prey, and I would be his end.

Almost it felt as if he was deliberately taunting me. Whenever he said something particularly offensive, it seemed that he would purposefully meet my eye and smirk. His comments all seemed to be a personal attack aimed directly at me. Aimed as accurately as his sword had once been. But this was more effective. I could dodge a blade. I could not close my ears completely to his accusations, his ignorant ramblings, his derisive comments. They only served to infuriate me.

His snide remarks and ridicule began to root themselves in my mind, along with all his other features. They consumed me, filled me with a cold rage. Thoughts of him began to sneak up on me unbidden. Now he was able to enrage me not only when he was present, but when I was alone, as well. He planted himself firmly in my head. My hate for him was beginning to devour me.

I told myself that I could not become obsessed with him. It was unseemly for a superior to be so fixated on his subordinate. Besides, I lived for Aizen-sama, and until Aizen-sama no longer had a need for him, he must stay alive.

But then, he would be mine.

For so long, I watched him, waiting for the day when I could fulfill my wish, when I could take the life from that foolish, imbecilic body. I watched him carefully, imagining my hands around his throat. I watched his every move, learning, so that I could kill him swiftly when the time came. It was all unnecessary; I could have killed him without a thought, without so much as flick of my hand. But I couldn't help studying him, or imagining his death.

A million times I killed him in my dreams. I slit his throat, and soaked my hands in his blood. I crushed his skull beneath my foot, and admired the crack it made when the bone collapsed. I pierced his heart with nothing but my bare hand. That was my favorite. I could nearly feel his heart as it beat its last pulse, growing cold between my fingers.

Always, these fantasies left me unsatisfied, wanting more. I could not be content until he was dead. Not until I killed him, and watched him die.

It seemed that he was everywhere I went. He would pass me in the hall and smile that infuriating sneer. On missions, wherever I went, he was there. At meetings, it seemed he would meet my gaze on purpose, as if laughing at me, and the urge to rip him, to tear him limb from limb would almost overtake me.

I was apparently not the only one who disliked him. The others seemed to enjoy a good brawl with him now and again. Aizen-sama quickly grew impatient with his disrespect, and often reprimanded and punished him. It enraged me; he was not theirs to harm. He would die at my hands. Only my hands could cause him pain. I would be the one to end his life, not them. They couldn't do it properly. Only I could destroy him. Only I could put an end to him. He was mine.

It seemed that I watched him for an eternity. I could hardly remember a time when I hadn't lived wholly for his demise. Everything was about him. About his death. Him.

And then, before I knew what was happening, he wasn't whole anymore.

* * *

Um, hello there. I'm Laura, and this is my first fanfiction outside the realm of Harry Potter. Yes, I'm aware that the amount of angst is overwhelmingly angsty. It's enough to make you want to angst, isn't it? Or maybe that's just me. Cough cough.

This story is actually finished, you know. (And you can't say "No, I don't know," because now you do!) It was written as and meant to be read as a one-shot, but turned out muchmuchmuch longer than I'd originally anticipated. So, five chapters. The second one's pretty short, I'll warn you. Not that this wasn't. But the second one is even shorter. The point is, if you want to read it the way I intended it to be read, wait until I've posted all the chapters. Lots of good this warning is going to do you at the end of the chapter, eh? But, as my dear, dear beta has pointed out, that's a fuckload of angst to take in during just one sitting.

Speaking of my dear, dear beta... NeuroticNut! That's her. Did I spell it right? I think I did. Thank you so much. You know you love my driving!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: is not owning

_Chapter 2_

His arm – that same arm which I had dreamed of tearing from his body – was gone. This was not right. He wasn't supposed to be broken. He was my prey, mine alone. No hands could harm him but mine.

If he was broken…

It was difficult to comprehend. Never had I seen him so defeated. Never had the pain of another stung me so deeply. I could scarcely look at him, his disfigured body. It was unnatural. It was wrong.

If he was broken, then so should I be broken. What use was my arm if he did not have his? It should be gone.

I could not have said where these thoughts came from, only that they frightened me. I hated this man; I wanted to kill him. What did it matter whether he was whole or not? Yet it was suddenly of grave importance. If I could fix him. If I could make him whole again.

But I couldn't. There was nothing for me to do; no way could I fix what should have never been broken. Was I so worthless? So contrary, so inconstant? How could I hate him one day, and then want so badly to make him whole, the next? What good was I?

I didn't even notice that I no longer thought of killing him. All he was, all he had been, was ruined. Something was different. Something, about the way he walked, the way his eyes shifted, was changed. He was ashamed, I thought. He pretended not to care; he tried not to show it, but I could see.

Why could I see when no one else could? There was no sense in the world anymore. My world didn't exist. All I had known was changed, ripped away with his arm. I felt something I had never felt before: loneliness. Why was I lonely? I was no more alone than I had been. Perhaps it was that I no longer had something to live for. Perhaps it was that I did have something to live for; something I couldn't admit, even to myself. Something I couldn't begin to understand. But whatever it was, there was an emptiness in me I hadn't felt before. It went beyond being the empty soul I had been before. Now I was less of a body with a hole in it, and more of a hole with a body around it.

I stopped seeing him wherever I went. He would no longer appear in the places I'd seen him in every day since forever, it seemed. Instead, I would start looking for him. I would go out wandering, on the pretence of an errand, hunting for him. I wondered irrationally if he was avoiding me. Times when I did see him, he would quickly disappear, almost as if he ran away. He would run from me. Why?

I was searching for him in just this way, when he found me. He spoke to me. He'd spoken to me before. But this was different. It seemed to be more than just speaking. He was saying more than he had words for, but I couldn't hear them.

"Ulquiorra," he growled, in his crude, mocking way.

My stomach twisted painfully as I turned and caught sight of his ruined arm. I would fix it, it would be fixed, or I would take my own.

"Ulquiorra," he repeated impatiently.

"Yes?" I returned coldly, willing my stomach to right itself.

He said nothing for a moment, and I said nothing in return. We stood facing each other in that blank white hallway, one of hundreds. There was nothing overtly strange about our meeting. It was normal, and yet every detail seemed to jump at me, every tiny flicker of his one hand, every minute shift of his eye, each one storing itself deep within my mind, as though it were of dire importance that I not forget this mundane encounter.

He stared blankly at me, his eyes as blue as his hair. Lost, he seemed, deep in his own trance. Finally he blinked hard and shook his head. "What're you doing all the way over here?" he demanded softly.

There was another question hidden in his, deep. I couldn't follow him that far down.

"That is none of your concern," I answered coldly.

He shook his head again. "Whatever," he mumbled, turned and walked away.

There had been so few words, and yet there was so much I didn't understand about them. I'd grown soft, I thought.

That night he was in my dreams again. Not as he usually was, as of late – defeated and helpless – but the way he used to appear to me. Whole – but not for long. Not after I had stabbed him, my hand through his chest, his beating heart held in the palm of my hand once more. There was no joy in it. I made myself sick. Had I wanted to kill him? There was no point in killing him.

But why was I so desperate to keep him alive?

It was me avoiding him, after that. I didn't want to see him, to hear his voice telling me more than I heard. There was something he couldn't tell me, I was sure, and I had no intention of hearing it, if I could help it. I kept to my rooms, wallowing in their security. He wouldn't dare come here, to a superior's chambers. I would have to go to him.

Even if he was not present, though, I could not escape him. He was always in my thoughts, haunting me with that hidden meaning, those eyes that held more than I knew. I longed for the days when I had wished for his death. It had been such a simple desire. Now, I couldn't even begin to wonder what I wanted, much less crave it.

For days, or maybe weeks and months, I hid. All the while, he was there in my mind, mocking me, sneering and cursing. Sometimes just speaking. "Ulquiorra," he said. And again, "Ulquiorra."

"What're you doing all the way over here?"

_That is none of your concern._

Was it really not his concern? If it was not his, then whose was it? I could hardly say it was my own, anymore. I couldn't have said what day it was. I could barely remember my name. But his, his was clear in my mind.

Grimmjow. Did he know how I obsessed over him? How he occupied every one of my thoughts? I thought not. I had been careful to hide it, though I had told myself I had nothing to hide. I was hiding from myself more than from anyone else, certainly more than from him.

But I couldn't hide forever, of course. Duty was the only thing which could have removed me from my security; for although I hardly had thoughts to spare for anyone other than him, my loyalty to Aizen-sama still held. Perhaps out of nothing more than habit. I certainly wasn't compelled by Aizen-sama as I had once been. Now he was nothing more than a sideshow, a prop. Especially if _he_ was there.

I knew I would have to meet him there. I would have to sit at that long table, pretending to listen to Aizen-sama, and try to put him out of my mind. I would try not to rip my own arm away, try not to fix him. I would try.

But to my initial surprise, he was not even present at Aizen-sama's meeting. Of course not, I realized. He was no longer an Espada, not since he had been so mutilated. I should have been relieved. I could put off seeing him until another day. I was not relieved. Was I disappointed? I couldn't tell. It was as if there was no emotion to be had at all. The whole world was gray and more gray.

Forever the meeting seemed to drag, I hearing nothing that was said. Forever the blank white halls seemed to stretch before me. How long had the meeting been over? It could have still been in progress, for all I knew or cared.

"Ulquiorra."

I froze. His voice caught me completely off guard. Paralyzed me. Where was I, then? Where had my traitor legs carried me? My stomach turned to ice, cold and heavy inside me. My heart, useless inside my already-deceased body, turned to fire. Everything was backwards, upside down, inside out. Where was I?

"Come to visit me again, have you, Ulquiorra?" he said. The words were right, the kind of sarcastic comment he would use, but it was as if they were spoken by something dead, lifeless. Not with his usual sneer, that characteristic temper behind all his words. It was as if I had said them.

I faced him coldly, betraying no emotion. It was not difficult to conceal my true thoughts. Always, I had been so vacant, so bored with life. When had I ever had emotions to betray, before now?

"Sexta," I addressed him.

He huffed slightly in contempt. "That's _ciento seis_," he corrected. "I've been demoted."

"I see."

He had no reply then, only stared at me in silence. His gaze was brutal, relentless. He's studying me, I thought. Even as I studied him. His eyes, sharp and restless. His broken mask; that second, inhuman jaw set against his own. His bare chest, with that hideous scar stretched across it. Why must he leave it there? I should have been the one to cause it. It should be the mark of my sword on his body, not some nobody stand-in shinigami's. _I_ wanted to hurt him. I wanted to see the pain on his face. I wanted to carve my mark over that revolting scar, to make him mine, and no one else's.

But I did not want to kill him.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded abruptly, drawing my eyes again to his face.

"I would like to know, as well," I answered shortly.

He shook his head, looking to the floor, as if to clear his thoughts. "You're a damn mystery," he spat. "Whenever someone thinks they've got you figured out, you turn around and do something crazy." Suddenly he slammed his fist against the wall. Several cracks grew from his hand along the plaster. "Fuck!" he yelled.

"Well, one certainly couldn't say the same for you," I retorted coldly. His remark had surprised and angered me. Why should I care whether he had me figured out or not? It was better that he couldn't predict, didn't know the way my mind worked.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

"It simply means you're easy to read," I replied smoothly. "Predictable. Like clockwork."

He snorted in contempt. "Predictable, huh? I guess it beats being a cold-hearted robot. Wouldn't want anyone to figure out what we're thinking, eh?"

He advanced without warning, and before I knew it he had me backed against a wall with no escape. His fist slammed into the wall again, inches from my head. I noticed for the first time just how much taller than me he was. He leaned threateningly toward me, his eyes intent on something. The space between us shrank with every passing moment.

I could kill him, I thought. Right here. Aizen didn't need him any more. He was fair game. I could kill him.

But I couldn't.

"Why?" he demanded. His voice was quiet now, nearly a whisper, but he was tense. Far more anxious than he was when he yelled.

"Why?" he asked again. I knew that it wasn't a question for me, but one that likely had no answer. "Why you?"

"What about me?" I asked faintly, after a pause.

He made another derisive noise in the back of his throat. "If you don't know, I'm sure as hell not going to tell you," he whispered, his face dangerously close to mine.

"Tell me," I commanded.

He smiled, but without humor. "You tell _me_," he said. He moved his right hand – his only hand – suddenly, and I braced myself for a blow. He did not strike me, however, as I had anticipated. There was no way I could have possibly braced myself against what he did next.

He placed the first two fingers of his hand beneath my left eye, then dragged them down my cheek.

"Who are these tears for, Ulquiorra?" he asked softly, a desperation in his words that I had never heard before – from him or anyone. The kind of desperation I had only felt – the kind of desperation he forced upon me. "Tell me," he begged.

There were other words, too. Words that he did not mean to say, but that I heard anyways. Words I had heard endlessly, over and over, for longer than I could remember.

_Ulquiorra. _

Tell me.

_What are you doing all the way over here?_

Who are those tears for?

_Tell me. _

For a brief second, I had no voice. The words caught in my throat, they tried to strangle me. "That is none of your concern," I answered plainly. What else was there to be said?

I watched as the expression on his face twisted, anger and misery overwhelming his features. "Damn it!" he hissed loudly. His fist again assaulted the wall next to my head. "It is my concern, you selfish bastard!" He was livid, and his rage was tangible. A live flame, a forest fire blazing across continents, but much more solid. Much more constant, much longer lived. He was furious.

"Always, it's none of my fucking concern!" he cried bitterly. "But it _is_, you idiot! Why can't you see that? Why can't you fucking see _anything_ other than fucking Aizen-sama? You're blind!" he yelled.

Suddenly he grew still, the rage sinking below the surface again, if only to return later. For now, though, it was gone. He bowed his head slowly, nearly resting it on my shoulder. I couldn't look at him. I could only stare determinedly at the wall opposite the one he had me pinned against. His breath was ragged, the short gasps brushing the fabric of my uniform.

"You're so blind," he whispered. For a while he was silent, and his breathing grew shallower by degrees. I persuaded myself into thinking he was done talking, that there was nothing left he could say. I was wrong.

"I can't," he said suddenly. His voice was as emotionless as I had ever heard it. Dead. A small flicker of panic sparked within me – I was supposed to be the cold, lifeless, unemotional one. Not him. My eyes stared blankly without seeing the wall before them.

"I can't do it," he continued flatly. "I can't stop thinking about you. You're _Ulquiorra -fucking-Schiffer _and I can't stop thinking about you." Panic was climbing into his voice now, lifting him from those emotionless pits. The terror lessened in my chest, that panic in his own voice somehow reassuring me. Yet still, I stared at the wall.

"Say something," he demanded. "Tell me how fucking crazy I am. Tell me how much you hate me, how you're going to kill me. Say anything."

I could not grant his request. I couldn't speak. The words struggled to break through, to burst from my mouth, but I would not let them. I could not. I could do nothing. I would stare at that wall for all eternity if I had to, so long as I did not have to speak the words that wanted so desperately to be spoken.

"Who are those tears for, Ulquiorra?"

Tears. Is that what they were, then? I had heard them called that before, for lack of a better term. Only now did it seem that tears were what they really were. But when had I ever cried?

I let my thoughts spin slowly as I watched the wall and felt his breath.

"Who are they for?" I repeated slowly. I felt his body become suddenly even more still as he braced himself for my answer. His breathing seemed to cease.

"I could say they were for Aizen-sama," I said hesitantly. "Or I could say they were for me, for some past of mine, some human tragedy that has escaped my memories. I could say they were for people I've killed." I took a deep breath, holding it deep inside me before letting it out slowly, without a sound. "Or I could say they're for you."

Finally, he lifted his head from my shoulder, but not enough so that I could see his eyes. I couldn't even begin to imagine what those eyes must have held. I wanted to see.

"In truth, though," I continued, "I don't know who they're for. They were there when I was born; that is all. They mean nothing to me."

Gradually, he straightened so that he was once again far taller than me. He took a step back, away from the wall. My body suddenly grew very cold, as though I stepped out of a warm room into a frigid winter night.

"But they mean something to you," I finished.

"I don't know what it is," he said quietly.

"I see," I replied.

He was silent.

I waited for him to say something, but he seemed to be waiting for me. There was nothing for me to say. What could I have said? Words had failed me. All language – Japanese, Spanish, English – had escaped, abandoned me with him, his reckless silence filling the space between us. The air was thick, and yet not enough to fill my lungs. My eyes wouldn't focus, and yet I stared intently. I stared at him, at those eyes full of fire and hate. I still hated him. I would always hate him.

Wouldn't I?

My hand moved of its own accord and rose from its place at my side. It placed itself against his chest, fingertips only just brushing that repulsive scar. It was warm, and smooth to the touch as if the skin had been stretched too tightly over it. A small ridge rose where it joined with his soft, unblemished skin, like a tiny mountain range. His pale skin looked almost dark against my own gray hand. He inhaled softly as my hand slid down the wound.

"I wanted to kill you," I admitted as my hand ceased its journey. I let it fall again, the tingle of his flesh still there on my fingertips.

He laughed. Loudly. Scornfully. "You wanted to kill me?" he demanded. "Well, maybe that'd be best for everyone. Alright, then, go ahead." He grabbed my hand and placed it around his neck. "Kill me."

His reaction caught me by surprise. I don't know what I had expected, but certainly I hadn't thought he would ask me to kill him. The weight of his life weighed heavy in my hands. It was almost tempting, and it would be easy to do. I would only have to crush his windpipe, or snap his spine, or sever his jugular – so many choices he had given me, by exposing himself.

I let my hand get a better grip on his neck as his hand fell away, feeling the muscles beneath my palm shifting ever so slightly with each breath. Could I kill him? Yes, I could. But I wouldn't. There was no longer any desire in me to see him dead. Instead, there was a desire to see him live. To see him fight, and win, and gloat, the way he used to. My hand tightened a fraction around his throat, as though it would kill him regardless of my wishes, but then loosened and released him.

"Why won't you kill me?" he asked as my hand fell away. "I want you to kill me, Ulquiorra."

He moved in quickly, then, and did something that I had never dreamed would happen. Not with him, not with anyone. He kissed me. He wrapped his hand around the back of my neck and pressed his lips against mine. It was short, barely more than a couple seconds. But it was more than enough to send every inch of my mind and body into a whirlwind of confusion. His eyes widened as though he too could not believe what he had just done. He had kissed me. Him, the one whom I had hated, the one whom I had wanted to kill, the one whom I had wanted to fix.

A millennium passed, and we both were frozen. Finally, his hand began to slip from my neck, and his expression softened. He stepped away from me.

"I want you to kill me, Ulquiorra," he whispered. "Please, just kill me."

My hand struck before my mind could stop it. I slapped him across the face, my palm colliding solidly with his exposed cheek. The skin flushed pink where I had hit him. What was he saying? How could he know what he was asking of me? "Listen to me," I said angrily. I was shocked at the emotion in my own voice. "I will not ever kill you," I vowed. "I will not."

"You hate me," he said matter-of-factly.

"Yes," I said. "I did."

"But not anymore?"

"That depends."

He took another step back, creating even more distance between us. My mind shouted for him to stop, for him to come back. For him to kiss me again. I couldn't understand it.

He shook his head. "You see?" he asked. "This is exactly what I mean. I can never figure you out. Never. You're so fucking twisted." He took another step away. I silently screamed for him to close the gap. "It's unbearable."

"Yes," I agreed breathlessly. "It is unbearable."

He stared at me in confusion for a moment, not sure what I meant.

I took a deep breath, bracing myself for what I was about to say. I wasn't sure how he would take it, but I thought if I didn't tell him I would be deceiving him. For reasons unknown to myself, I did not want to deceive him.

"I have this obsession," I said slowly.

"What?" he asked, surprised. "With… with what?"

"With you," I breathed. "I'm obsessed with _you_."

"H-how can you…" he stuttered. "Why are you telling me this?"

"You want to know, don't you? You want to figure me out, so I'm telling you. I am completely obsessed with you. I don't understand it. You were nothing more than a subordinate. You were trash. You were nothing. I hated you, and I wanted to kill you. But now, I can't stop thinking about you."

I paused, my dead heart beating rhythmically in my chest. What was I doing? I was breaking rules I had set for myself; I was exposing myself.

"I have so many questions," I continued before I could stop myself, "and none of them have answers."

"Do they really need answers?"

I stared at him in surprise. Of course they needed answers – only one answer. He was the answer. I could have seen it before. But I was too blind, just like he'd said. Blind to what I really wanted – what I needed. Blind to him.

"No–" The syllable had barely escaped my lips before his mouth again covered mine. He kissed more forcefully this time – like he was afraid to lose something. I felt his tongue run lightly across my lower lip. I was frozen, half in shock. I couldn't have said what the other half was that held me there. Still, the kiss didn't last long. Not nearly long enough. I wanted more of him. I wanted all of him.

He was mine.

He receded slowly. I could see the sadness in his eyes. I didn't want to see it. I wanted to see life there instead. I wanted to see anger, and pride, and jealousy. All the things I had hated about him: the obnoxious arguments, the pointless boasting, the violent tendencies, and the blatant sarcasm. I wanted them all to return.

I wrapped my hand around the back of his head and pulled him to me. Our lips met again, each exploring, wanting more. I hadn't ever kissed someone before that day. It was new to me; I was inexperienced. I didn't know what I was doing. Nonetheless, it seemed to come naturally. Instinct. It felt undeniably right, even though I knew in the back of my mind that something like this could not end well.

Still, that couldn't have stopped me. Even if it had, it couldn't have stopped _him_, and he would have brought me right back into it. Besides, what about it was so wrong? He was nothing, now. Nobody else wanted him. He was worthless. Only I still saw him. Only I could not stop seeing him. He belonged to me now, and not one of them could take him away from me.

Our kiss lasted much longer this time. He seemed to be encouraged by my new willingness to respond. Had he thought I was rejecting him before? Or could he see that I was merely in shock? His hand twisted in my hair. I clutched at his own short blue hair, holding him against me as though I were I afraid he would float away. Those electrifying blue locks were surprisingly soft; they curled invitingly around my long, cold fingers, almost as if in welcome. My other hand rested against his chest once more, tracing that hideous scar. His body was warm – every bit of him warmed me, made me realize how cold I had been without him. I needed that warmth. I needed to always feel his lips against mine. I needed _him_. Oh, how I needed him.

It lasted forever – our mouths moving against each other, our tongues touching briefly, and then receding again. It ended too soon, both of us gasping for breath. He leaned against me, the weight of his body pinning me to the wall. I realized then how incredibly exposed I was – he had me completely off guard. He could have killed me easily then, I had no doubt. I was a bit shocked at how little I cared. If he wanted to kill me, then that was alright. If it was him, I wouldn't mind. As long as they were his hands – no, his hand – killing me, tearing me limb from limb. Just as he had been mine to kill, I should now be dead only by his hand. He was mine.

But now, I was also his.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Guess.

_Chapter 3_

His breathing calmed slowly, as did mine. My hand was still against his chest, pinned now between his body and my own. His warmth was still there, still flowing into my body. It was a heavy warmth, as though a great weight had been placed upon him, and he struggled to carry it alone. I didn't stop to wonder how a being who was dead, a being with a heart as useless as my own, could carry such a warmth with them. Instead, I let his warmth spread throughout my cold body, willing it to stay with me always.

Suddenly, the weight of him lifted, and he stood with the strength of his own legs again. The ice I had never noticed before came rushing back into my limbs. His one hand shifted slowly, moving from its place at the back of my head. Hesitantly, he placed his palm against my cheek. His hand seemed to fit perfectly against my face, as though it were made only to fit me. For a moment I wondered if it could be true.

His thumb rubbed slowly back and forth across my cheek, crossing that trail of tears. Then for a moment he held perfectly still. The silence was perfect. There was nothing to interrupt, nothing to come between me and the touch of his hand. It was such a simple thing, to be touched by that lone hand. And yet I could think only how perfect it was.

"If I had my other hand…" he whispered. His words broke the silence quietly, hardly intruding at all.

"I would give it to you," I replied, hardly louder. "I would get it back for you, if I could."

He said nothing, but his lips brushed against mine once more, which was all the answer I needed. We kissed again, deeply, but this time I let him take complete control. I was his to do with as he wished, for the time being.

_I want to fix you_, I thought, resting my hand against the wasted stump of his shoulder.

His kisses became more desperate. _I want you to fix me_, was the answer I heard.

He left my mouth, trailing kisses down the line of my chin, my neck. I tried desperately not to enjoy it, telling myself we should stop, that this was wrong. What would happen if someone found us here? As if he had heard my thoughts, he hesitated and looked up at my face. He straightened slowly, his eyes locking onto mine as he rose to his full height once again. I felt his hand close around my wrist.

"Come with me," he said quietly. It was a request, not a demand, but a request that I couldn't have denied even if I'd wanted to.

I nodded once. He released my hand, and then turned abruptly away, walking swiftly along the hall. I followed at a distance, my hands shoved safely in my pockets. That was my security; if I couldn't touch him, I couldn't want him so badly, I thought.

We were farther from his room than I had thought we had been; I followed him through many blank, uninviting corridors, around countless corners, past countless doorways. Always I kept my distance from him, suddenly wary of the vulnerability he forced upon me. He exposed parts of me that I had never seen before – he revealed bits and pieces of my mentality that should have never been revealed to anybody. I was not so afraid of him discovering me as I was afraid of the way I didn't mind what he saw of me. Had I changed so drastically that I no longer cared whether I was easy to read or not? Had I become such an open book?

He halted next to an ordinary white door, upon which was printed in plain black typeset the number "106." He slid it open slowly, then stepped inside without so much as a glance back at me. I half expected him to slide it back shut behind him, but followed him when it remained open.

The inside of his room was about the way I had expected it to be. Four white walls, without windows. A full-sized bed adorned with grey sheets was pushed against one wall. A plain desk with an uncomfortable-looking chair took up another. The only surprising thing was how clean it was – I would have expected a room kept by him to be cluttered beyond belief, not this immaculate grey box.

He stood in the far corner, watching me as if gauging my reaction. I closed the door behind me and took a hesitant step towards him.

Suddenly, he was there, and he was kissing me again. It was more than a kiss, though. There was so much desperation, so much need coming from both of us. It was as though we had both ripped out our lifeless hearts and were now laying them out for the other to see. I wanted him, and I was no longer afraid to show it. In fact, I _wanted _him to see how much I needed him.

His kissing was certainly distracting, but not enough so that I did not notice his hand finding its way around my body. It twisted in the hair at the back of my neck; it wandered down my arm, interlacing with my fingers; it snuck around my waist, pressing me even closer to him. It struggled with the zipper of my jacket, fumbling at my neck until he got a good grip, then tugging until my chest was as bare as his.

He worked his way gradually back up, moving up over my stomach to my chest, then slowly but surely approaching my hollow hole. His fingers brushed lightly against the edge of that chasm, that tunnel that marked me for what I was. I twitched at the unfamiliar contact, my fists clenching convulsively. An arrancar's hole was a sort of taboo to other hollow, arrancar or otherwise. To an arrancar, it was more than just the place where our chain of fate had been; it was our one connection to what we truly were. It was something personal to us, something no simple human could understand. This was the very reason I hid mine behind my clothes – to expose it to the world was to expose myself. The sensation of a hand that was not my own touching it was something different from anything I'd felt before.

It felt wrong.

And yet, because it was his hand, because he was the one who had touched it, it also felt right. I hissed involuntarily as his fingers slipped inside that hole. His fingertips felt blistering to the raw flesh that lined that hole. The pain was maddening – frighteningly so. It stabbed and burned and ached, but I did not wish for it to end. Those were _his _fingers burning me. _He _was inside me, inside that place were none had ever been before. The hole that made me what I was, more vital to my existence than any organ my body carried, more like a heart than that fleshy organ which beat inside my empty chest, and he was destroying what I knew of it. He lingered there for only a moment before his hand moved away, but the feeling of blissful intrusion did not ebb.

He began to steer me across the room, and I willingly followed his lead. I hesitated when I felt the bed against the back of my knees, but he did not. He carefully laid me on my back, his mouth never breaking away from mine for more than an instant. I was aware of his legs straddling my waist, his one hand curled under my head as he continued to kiss me.

I could think only how right it was – and how I wanted more. More of him, more of _this_, whatever this was. More. I wanted him. I wanted his kisses, and the way his hand traced my body. I wanted his warmth. Mostly, I wanted him to want me.

And I wanted more.

My mind, my cool, collected mind, had betrayed me. Who are these tears for, he had asked. But what had I said in return?

Suddenly, he stopped. His mouth pulled away, and his eyes held mine in the deepest trance.

"We can't do this," he said, as though finally admitting something he'd known all along.

"I know," I replied, my voice empty of all inflection.

"But I want to," he whispered. The anxiety of his words pierced my lifeless heart.

"I know," I answered gravely.

He sat back slowly, and I pulled myself up on my elbows, then into a sitting position. We sat facing each other across his bed, each frantically wanting the other, each testing the limits of his self control, and trying to hide it as best he could.

Finally, he laughed nervously, running his hand through that brilliant blue hair. "Well, fuck," he said plainly. "What is this, then?"

"This?" I repeated. "This is nothing." I could feel my cold, collected nature slowly returning. What warmth I had taken from him was quickly receding. "It was hatred; now it is nothing more than obsession."

I stood, zipping up my jacket and turning to leave. As I reached for the door, however, he caught my wrist, turning me sharply to face him. His lips pressed against mine once more, but this time I pushed him away.

He looked surprised at first, but then he smiled and snorted contemptuously. "Have I mentioned lately what a fucking mystery you are?"

"You might have," I said coldly, turning to leave once more.

"Can we do this again sometime?" he demanded hurriedly as I strode out the door.

"We'll see," I replied as I walked, not bothering to look back.

It was a very long time before I saw him again. Or at least, it felt like a very long time. It felt like forever – an eternity without his warmth, without his touch. I had to teach myself how to live without him. Slowly, I eased myself back into my routine**. **He was still perpetually in my thoughts, but rather than having him always the sole recipient of my whole attention, I had succeeded in pushing him to the back of my mind.I could think about other things. I could do my duties, out of necessity. I could follow orders, and give them. I could give the illusion of normalcy. No more than that.

It was during the nights that I allowed my mind to wander. Night was a relative term in Hueco Mundo; technically, it referred to the time between 1900 hours and 0700 hours when Aizen demanded the lights of his Las Noches be dimmed, a time for sleep.

Most nights, however, I slept little. I laid on my standard-issue bed, staring into blackness and remembering a very different standard-issue bed, one where I had also once lain. I thought of him, and all he had said and done. He had said that he couldn't stop thinking about me. Was that still true? Did he lie in his bed even now, thinking of me as I did of him?

He had said that I hated him. That was no longer true – of that I was certain. He had said that I was blind. He had said that it was his concern – whatever "it" was. He had asked me who these tears were for, and I had given him no definite answer. He had given me answers to all my questions.

And what I had done in return?

I had scorned and mocked him. I had abused him, caused him pain. I had given him no answers. I had confused him.

It was unlike me to think these things. I did not care for the wellbeing of others, not even Aizen, if I was honest. But he – he was not "others." He was the one I had hated, the one who had kissed me. It was nearly as though I cared more for him than I did myself. After all, what good was I? I was nothing without him. If he was broken, then so should I be broken. He had been damaged beyond repair, and there was nothing I could do. I couldn't fix him. I could only break him further.

When sleep finally overtook me, my dreams carried me where my conscious mind would not. I dreamt of his touch. He kissed me, and held his palm against my face, but it was only a shadow of a feeling. I could almost take in his warmth again – almost, but not quite. I knew that his body was heavy, but I could not feel it.

Each day was a silent hell, the torture of wanting to see him, and yet not wanting to see him, building up inside me. It grew each passing moment, manifesting itself to an almost physical pain. I struggled wordlessly to remember how I had lived before, without him. It seemed that he had always been there, now. That he had always been my life.

But still, he did not distract me from my duty. I knew, now, that it was no more than tradition, nothing more than muscle memory which led me through my days. My thoughts and feelings were mechanical, just as they had been before, I now saw. Only those thoughts which were of him – the ones that held his words, his touch, his voice – were of any real value. Consequently, it was easy for me to maintain my appearance of unwavering loyalty, even as he lingered in my mind.

The tasks Aizen gave to me had always been of a higher caliber nature than those he assigned to the others. Perhaps he felt he could trust me; once upon a time, he could have. I used to feel loyalty towards him. Now, I continued to do his bidding only because I knew what the consequences would be if I did not. Not that I much cared any longer whether I lived or died in the end. It seemed I was merely keeping myself alive out of habit more than anything else. And perhaps, although I didn't quite realize it, because I knew how _he_ would feel if I were to die.

In any case, I did not find Aizen's assignments to be of a particularly imminent nature. When he gave me a task, I did it swiftly and efficiently; I was not one to waste time. I thought nothing of it when he ordered me to capture a filthy human girl. If I had known what she would bring with her, I might have done things differently. I think it likely I would not have.

It was not until Aizen himself asked the filth to display her abilities that I realized the potential she had presented.

"Orihime," he said pleasantly. "Please heal Grimmjow's left arm as a way of demonstrating your power."

I stood in silent panic, watching as she pieced him back together. She was fixing him, bit by bit. I could not fix him, but she, a piece of human trash, could. Was he so easily fixed? Had I not seen it before? No. He had been broken beyond repair. And she had fixed him.

If he was broken, so should I be broken. But if he was whole by her hand, I could not be. Some part of me had changed when he had, and I would never go back. What had been broken once could never truly be repaired. I would never fix him, and so he could never be whole. He had been mine to break, and mine to fix – not hers. And yet she had done it. But it would not change him. It had not been only his body that had been damaged; his spirit, also, had been broken beyond repair. Or so I had thought.

As I watched him, though, I couldn't help but think how wrong I was. I watched as he flexed his newly-repaired arm in awe, watched as he murdered that fool Luppi. He didn't care who had fixed him. He only wanted his arm back, of course. It made sense, after all. I was nothing without him, but he was everything without me. I had been a fool to think he was mine.

I could think of nothing, after that. He was there in my mind, yes, but I could not think on him. There was merely a presence. My thoughts had abandoned me, and left me nothing but an empty shell. But how had that changed anything? I was an arrancar, empty by definition. I had fooled myself for an instant into thinking there was something more. I had been wrong, and now I was paying the price.

I couldn't simply disappear as I would have liked to, however. It would cause at least a bit of a stir. People would ask questions. I needed only to coast, to let my body run itself, and nobody would suspect a thing.

There were duties to uphold now, as well; Aizen had placed the human trash in my care. I was to bring her meals, keep her alive. I hated her. I wanted to kill her. I didn't understand why Aizen was allowing her to live, but I was almost grateful for the work, no matter how much I wanted her dead. The responsibility gave me some focus, if not much. There was no meaning to it. My life was all motions – empty motions with no real consequences.

I looked for him wherever I went, whether I realized it or not. Sometimes he was there; sometimes he wasn't. He didn't seem to be avoiding me, but he certainly didn't seem to me following me either. And I wasn't following him.

Having his arm returned to him had changed him, and I couldn't say it was for the better. He still wasn't quite the arrogant trash I had hated so much before, but there something of his old swagger back in his step. He had stopped looking so lost, so humiliated. He had stopped looking like he needed me.

He had stopped looking at me altogether.

* * *

Normal 0 false false false MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 !-- / Style Definitions / p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; page Section1 size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0; div.Section1 page:Section1; --

A/N: For everyone who's been asking "when does the next chapter come out?" Wednesdays, people. Wednesdays. There's only two chapters left after this, sadly, and they're both bloody short. Never fear, though, for there is a sequel on its way. It's just… um… taking its time. Yeah, let's say that. Thanks to everyone who's left a review on the last two chapters and/or favorited/watched/etc. Also, thanks to my beta, NeuroticNut. Thank you for telling me what I'm doing wrong all the freaking time, jackass. No, no, I'm kidding! Please, don't stop betaing! I LOV YOU.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4_

I had thought that if he got his arm back, if he was returned to his former state, that I might find myself hating him once more. It seemed a reasonable assumption, but it proved false. I didn't hate him. I couldn't hate him. Not now.

Life continued blankly forever, it seemed. My reason to live had abandoned me, so I no longer lived. I was merely in existence. He was the only one who could bring me back, but he didn't even see me. I was alone. More alone than I had ever been before. I had felt loneliness once, when he had been broken. Now that he was fixed, I was desolate. The lone being in a desert of ice, a cold plane where no wind blew and no sun shone. Below that surface, I knew something lay in wait. I could nearly see it through the window of ice, but it was obscured and faint, and I could only dream of touching it. I didn't need to see it to know what it was. I didn't need to touch it to know whose skin I would feel. I had felt it before.

I would feel it again someday. I would make him mine and mine alone. And I would make him see that I was his.

Until that time came, however, I could only drift through mindless days and sleepless nights. I made it my goal to forget about him, to devote myself wholly to my duty. If I could not make him my life, I reasoned, then I would have to return to the life I had led before I had met him. Before I had hated him. Before him.

Most of all, I avoided saying his name. I had always avoided his name, although I didn't quite know why. Now, it was like a dagger against my throat. If I heard it accidently, I was forced to close my eyes, to block out the way it echoed through my mind, to push away the image of his face, his hand, his _hands._

Grimmjow.

If I thought it when I was alone, it would never end. For hours, I could do nothing but hear his name in my ears, feel it rest on the tip of my tongue. I could not speak it. I had never spoken his name, and never could. Always, he was "sexta." How I longed now to say his name, now that I knew I never would.

When I saw him in the hallways, and at meetings, he did not deliberately look away from me. He was not obviously avoiding me. Not from anyone else's perspective. But I knew. I could see the indifferent glaze his eyes took on when they passed over my face. It was intolerable. Every time he met my gaze with those dead, clouded eyes, my insides twisted in silent anguish. I wanted to scream. Look at me, I would cry. See me. Let me see the life in your eyes.

But he could not hear me. Once, long ago, he had heard me. But no longer. I was nothing to him now. I had not fixed him, so I was worthless. He was whole again, and I was still broken.

It seemed to me an odd reversal, that I should be the one yearning for his touch, while he treated me indifferently. I had always been the one to treat him like trash; it had always been me whose emotions were completely hidden. Now, I was no more than a presence to him, a mere annoyance at best.

What had I done to deserve this torture? The pain of it all was excruciating, crushing me under its weight. I wanted to break free of it. All I had to do was forget him, and I would be free. But I couldn't let him go. I was his. I couldn't let him release me yet. I wanted him to hold the rope that tied me for just a little longer. I wanted to be his forever.

_Who are these tears for, Ulquiorra?_

_Tell me._

If I had answered him differently, I wondered, would things still be the way they were? Would I still be alone? Would he still be whole? What would have happened to us?

_Tell me_.

Now, I wanted him to tell me. I wanted him to tell me that I was still worth something to him. I wanted him to tell me that there was still a chance. That there was still hope.

Hope. How ironic. A hollow, a being born from hopelessness, grasping at a thin thread of hope to keep itself alive. But hope was all I had. It was all that was left for me, aside from the memories, and I clung to it tightly. I wouldn't let go of him yet. I would hold to that hope until death ripped it from my fingers. I might learn to live without him, to return to my former self, but I would always keep that hope.

I was alone in my room when I felt him walk by. I felt his footsteps as he approached. I felt him slow as he passed my door. I felt him quicken as he moved away from it. But he did not stop. At the time, I thought little of it. I only wished that I had stopped him. That I had made him see me.

I was still invisible to him. I would always be invisible to him, from now until forever. I was preparing myself to suffer my fate, gradually. I practiced not watching him across the table during Aizen's meetings; I did my best not to think about him at all. It was difficult, but I could do it. It hurt when I thought about him. When I managed to keep him out of my head, the pain was only a dull ache in my chest, instead of the burning longing I had almost become accustomed to. But that only succeeded in making my suffering more profound later, when he snuck back into my head, and the longing stabbed the walls of my heart over and over and over.

In the end, I couldn't bear it. I had to find him. I had to see him, and touch him. I needed him. I couldn't leave him alone. I _needed_ him.

I told myself that I was only going to look at him; the sight of him would be enough to curb my desire, if only for a minute or two. I would find him and watch him, for a moment, I told myself as I searched, and then I would turn and leave again. I would say nothing. I had no words for him. I convinced myself of that, in my search.

Las Noches was an enormous structure, and the portion of it designated specifically for Aizen's chosen Espada was by no means a small one. I don't know how long I walked – it could have been hours, or days, or just mere minutes. All I knew was that he was not in the places I looked, so I looked elsewhere. Where I found him, though, was the last place I had expected him to be.

He was outside my door, leaning against the opposite wall. His eyes were closed, and his hand massaged his brow as though he were in deep concentration. My stomach twisted painfully as I saw his left hand hanging at his side. I approached him cautiously.

"Sexta," I addressed him, as cold as I had ever been.

He jumped in surprise, then hastily turned to face me. An arrogant smirk spread across his face as he registered who I was and what I had said, and even as I watched I could see his eyes become lifeless and detached.

"I guess I am Sexta this time, huh?" he crowed obnoxiously.

"Congratulations," I replied icily. I moved to open the door to my apartments, telling myself that I had seen him; I should be satisfied. I was not satisfied, but I couldn't stand to look at those lifeless eyes any longer. Before I could grab the handle, however, his hand caught my wrist. His left hand, I noted, my wrist tingling like mad where his skin touched mine.

"I need to talk to you," he said flatly. "Can I come in?" I watched his eyes that seemed to stop seeing an inch from my face and nodded.

He released my hand and I opened the door, stepping back to let him through first. The interior of the room was not so different than his had been – both were mostly white, with stark furnishing, not to mention immaculately clean. The most obvious difference was the furniture. This room had a table and sofa in addition to a desk, and there was no bed. Being an Espada, I had multiple rooms at my disposal, and was not forced to make due with one small room, as he had been.

I closed the door behind me and scrutinized him as he observed my living quarters. I reflected that he had watched me in much the same way when I had first entered his room.

"You had something you wanted to say?" I asked when he said nothing at first.

He shook his head. "Not really." He turned to me and smirked as though he were pleased with himself. "Guess I kind of lied."

I stared at him, wondering what his motives were. What was he doing here? Had he come here just to torture me, to remind me of what I couldn't have? If he had, he was doing a marvelous job of it. He rubbed at the back of his neck with his hand, as if he was thinking again.

"In that case," I returned frostily, watching as he made himself comfortable at my table, "what are you doing here?"

He breathed a deep sigh, then closed his eyes and shook his head. "I just – " he began. "I just wanted to see you."

I felt the longing stab at my heart once more. "I would like very much for you to see me," I said with a hint of cynicism. "But it's been a long time since you've even looked at me, hasn't it?"

He set his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands. "I've been a fucking idiot," he said angrily.

I watched him silently for a moment, letting his words sink in. He'd been an idiot, he said. Because he hadn't been looking at me? Or because he never should have looked at me to begin with?

"You got your arm back," I said at length.

"No," he murmured in reply. "I have an arm, but it isn't mine."

"And why not?" I inquired. His elbows slipped on the table and he seemed to bury himself deeper in his hands.

"Because," he whispered. "It didn't come from _you_."

I stood frozen. Did he mean that? Could it possibly be true that he wished I had been the one to return his arm? Did he _truly _mean that? How could I know if he lied to me? I had always taken all he said at face value; why should I question this, now? I could wonder all I wanted, but how could I ever really know?

"Do you regret anything, Ulquiorra?" he asked suddenly.

"I try to avoid that which demands regret," I replied, evading his question.

"I've got too many regrets," he said, slouching even farther. "But I can't make any of them right."

"Stand up, Grimmjow," I commanded. His name felt like light on my tongue, like a thunderbolt racing through my flesh. As soon as I said it, I didn't want to stop saying it. But I restrained myself. "You aren't a coward," I continued, "Stop acting like one."

He slowly lifted his head from his hands, and then pushed away from the table. The chair made a thunderous screech in the dead silence. Standing, he looked at me, and I thought that he was really seeing me for the first time in ages.

"You said my name," he breathed softly, taking a careful step towards me. "You've never said my name before."

"Haven't I?" I asked as he moved slowly closer.

"No."

"I've thought it many times."

"I've dreamed of hearing you say it," he said quietly as his feet came to a halt. He stood a little less than two feet from me now, no more. Close enough to touch. "I've always dreamed of you."

"Then why were you ignoring me?" I demanded. "Why wouldn't you look at me?"

"I wasn't ignoring you," he insisted. "I thought you hated me. I couldn't look at you because I thought you hated me."

Slowly I raised my left hand and laid the back of it against his bare cheek. His skin felt burning against my hand. Too long had my skin been separated from his. "I wish I hated you," I answered. "It would be so much easier to hate you."

"Don't hate me," he begged, his own hand covering mine.

"I can't hate you," I whispered.

His eyes, which had been locked onto mine, closed slowly, and he leaned into my hand. "Good," he whispered back.

I slid my hand out from under his, moving it to his other cheek. I let my fingers travel the length of that garish jawbone, memorizing the shape of it, the texture. My knuckles knocked over the teeth as I dragged my hand over them. I relished the feel of it, each individual tooth distinct against my fingers. I moved towards his mouth, tracing his lips with my fingertips. Chapped lips, lips that had been neglected and let dry too long. I tried to remember what they had felt like against my own lips, how they had tasted on my tongue.

But why should I have to imagine? I wondered. I had them right there in front of me – I could feel them for myself.

Before I could reconsider, it was too late, and my mouth was already crushing his. Those shameful dreams of mine had lied to me; this was not some half remembered kiss projected by an unconscious mind. This was better. This was real. He was here, and kissing me, and he was not pushing me away. He did not back away from me, as I had feared he would. Instead, he held me closer, wrapping his arms – his two glorious, perfect arms – around me.

His lips were rough and dry; I ran my tongue over them slowly, to soften them. They moved in silent words I couldn't make out, but words I treasured all the same. His mouth moved in synch with mine, his tongue dancing across ever surface it could reach.

As our mouths occupied each other, our hands explored each other's bodies. His slipped under my shirt, running up my back as far as the fabric would allow, and down just far enough to run his fingers under the waist of my hakama. My hands traced the contours of his exposed chest, discovering anew what they had known before; his smooth skin, and that appallingly beautiful scar marring his perfect flesh. My fingers danced lightly over every bit of bare skin, desperate to know more of him, of his body.

As I approached that perfectly circular hole in his abdomen, however, he pulled away from me. For a moment I panicked internally – he didn't want me after all, I was nothing to him, nothing _without_ him, and he was everything without me. He would leave me here wanting him forever, and I would die of it.

My distress was unprecedented, however. He didn't leave me. Instead, he lifted his hands and placed one on either side of my face.

"This," he whispered. "This is how I should have been able to hold you."

My own hand traveled up to cover one of his. "This is how you will always hold me," I said definitively. "From now on."

"Yes," he said softly, as if in agreement. His eyes held mine for a moment, and I saw a longing in his eyes which I had only felt before. I wanted to dive deeper, to know all he was thinking. I wanted to go beyond the surface, which I had only began to scratch at.

"_Fuck_," he breathed, suddenly breaking the eye contact. His left hand moved to my shoulder, and he pressed his face against the base of my neck. "I want you, Ulquiorra," he breathed roughly. "God, I _want_ you."

"Then take me," I answered, threading my hand protectively through his unnatural-looking blue hair. "Take me away from them, Grimmjow." I pressed my cheek against his head, breathing in his smell – a smell of sweat, and dirt, but at the same time clean, like detergent, and only the tiniest hint of blood.

"I belong to you, now," I continued softly. "You can do whatever you want with me, but you can't make me stop belonging to you. Think of me as a possession, if you will, or anything you like, really. But whatever you do, don't stop owning me. Don't let me stop being yours, and yours alone. _Make_ me be yours."

He slowly lifted his head, then touched his lips once more to mine, briefly, gently. "That might be the most I've ever heard you say at once," he said quietly.

"I want you, too," I finished.

And then we were kissing again. Rough, violent kisses that only made me want more. More of _him_. All of him. I desired him more than I am sure any arrancar – or hollow, or shinigami, or vizard, or human – has ever desired anything. I needed him. I couldn't breathe without him, couldn't feel but for his touch, couldn't hear but for his voice.

Somehow, we had wandered across the room together, and he was now straddling me as best he could on the small, lumpy couch. His kisses never once stopped, even as he unzipped my jacket, even as his hand wandered across my bared torso, even as I wrapped my arms around his waist and pulled him down on top of me. His warmth once again seeped into me, the weight of him pressing me into the lumpy sofa springs. I hissed as he kissed a trail down my neck, moving ever closer to that hole in my chest.

Words left my mouth before I could stop them.

"We shouldn't be doing this," I said, and hating myself for it. I could never forgive myself if he stopped, if he left me here, now.

But once again, he didn't leave me. Instead, he crouched protectively over me, fire burning needful in his eyes. "I'm done with _shouldn't_," he growled, lowering his lips to my mouth again, kissing me desperately and deeply, only making me want him that much more. I began to think that if I wanted him any more, I would simply die of desire.

"I have a bed, you know," I struggled to get out between kisses. The couch was becoming increasingly uncomfortable due to the lack of space and the springs digging into my shoulder blades. Besides, a bed was more suited for this kind of activity.

He laughed scornfully. "Why the fuck didn't you say so earlier?" he asked, half hissing, half laughing. He moved off of me and stood, and immediately a cold chill swept my body. I led him quickly through a door and down the hall, and finally into my bedroom.

It was an average sized room, about the size of his old one, with almost no furniture to speak of, other than the large king-sized bed set against the wall. In no time, we had resumed our activities, the weight of his body pressing me into the mattress, his hands wandering over my body, his mouth together with mine.

This time, there was nothing to stop us. This time, we had abandoned duty, abandoned pride and blame. This time, there was only him. Only his warmth, filling every crack of my wretched soul. Only his eyes, deep and bright, an endless abyss. Only his mouth, his hands, his chest and arms and legs. He was the only one, and he was mine.

I could not know for certain, but I felt instinctively that, at that moment, not only was he the only one for me, but I was the only one for him. It was inexplicable; I did not know his mind, not truly. His thoughts were as foreign to me as the moon. Maybe even more so – the desolate craters of the moon surely weren't so different from the endless grey wastelands of Hueco Mundo. He was not predictable, contrary to what I had told him. He was the very farthest from predictable my cold, analytical mind could comprehend. I could not foresee a single one of his wild, impulsive actions. And yet I thought I could feel what was in his mind at that moment.

No, that is wrong. I could feel what was in his _heart_, just as I knew he could feel what was in mine. Just as I had once dreamed of holding his ravaged heart in my hands, I could once again feel it beating between my fingertips. The difference was that this time I did not reach inside his chest to take it from him; he handed it to me willingly, and I accepted it with great care.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: It is finished. Yep, that's it. After this, there's NO MORE. Except for the sequel. It's tentatively titled "Affliction," and is from Grimm-chan's point of view rather than Ulqui's. So keep an eye out for it, yes? Oh ho ho Sorry this last chapter's so short. It's inexcusable, I know. I'm sorry. It really just didn't break up the way I wanted it to, damn it all.

_Chapter 5_

It did not seem so much later that I awoke, lying beneath cotton sheets. I felt oddly exposed, and it was not more than a few moments before I registered my own nakedness. My clothes lay elsewhere, I now remembered, abandoned long before. With this revelation came a rush of other memories; his hands, his kisses, our bodies moving as one.

Sure enough, there he was, fast asleep next to me. He was not a pretty sleeper. Curled like a cat around his pillow, sheets twisted around his body, his mouth hanging open with a puddle of drool soaking the pillow. _My _pillow, I remembered with a tinge of annoyance. His eyes were open a bit, but I was sure he was asleep. The blue of his iris was just visible in the slit between his eyelids. I had never seen anyone sleep with their eyes open before. It was a bit unnerving, but I got used to it quickly.

I wondered if what we had done had been wise. We had broken no law, disobeyed no one. Still, I felt that what we had done had been somehow forbidden to us, that it was some great taboo that we had ignored. We had crossed a boundary into a land that we could not return from. What would happen to us now? Would we be shunned? Hated?

And most importantly, what would become of _this_? Would we continue to see each other this way? Or would it simply end here? I hoped earnestly that it would continue. I wouldn't be able to return to the life I had led before. There had been no life before. I had been born when he was born, when he had become my life. He was my life, and I could not live without him.

He shifted in his sleep, upsetting my thoughts. He seemed to settle, but then grunted and shifted more. I watched carefully as his sleep-clouded eyes opened slowly, blinking in the grey light of Hueco Mundo. "Fuck…" he hissed quietly.

"You're still here," I pointed out, alerting him to my presence.

He turned his head quickly to look at me, apparently surprised to find me there with him. I saw the comprehension of what had happened flow onto his face, similar to my own reaction upon waking.

"Were you watching me sleep?" he asked drowsily, seemingly amused.

"Seeing as you are in my bed, I think it should only be expected."

He turned, rubbing sleep from his eyes, propping his head up on one arm in order to better meet my eyes. He grinned mischievously, a joyful gleam shining in his eyes. "You were a virgin, weren't you?" he asked playfully.

I glanced away from him, turning my face to hide my uneasiness. "I'd never found sex to be much of an attraction. I never wanted it, before." I gave him a derisive glare. "I'm sorry if I wasn't up to par," I said stingingly.

"That's alright," he replied, still half joking. He pushed himself up onto his hands, crouching over me. "I'm just glad that I was the one who got to take it from you."

"I gave it to you," I corrected him, my hand meandering up around the base of his neck.

"Yes," he agreed. "Thank you, for that." He leaned down to press his lips against mine again, his body restraining me once more. His clothes, too, had been discarded long ago – there was nothing to come between us, now. His skin was soft and smooth against mine, and warm. So warm.

Soon, though, he rolled back onto his side of the bed – I had already come to think of that half as belonging to him – and propped himself up to face me once more. "I'm sure you've had sex before, though," he said. I couldn't tell if the laughter had gone from his voice, or if it was still half there. "Back when you were human, maybe."

I had to stop myself from gasping. An arrancar's human life was beyond taboo – they were a nearly forbidden topic. For him to make such a casual comment about mine was nearly unthinkable.

But was it such a casual comment?

I answered him at length. "I don't remember much about my human life," I said slowly, cautiously. "In fact… I remember nothing at all."

"Nothing?" he demanded, a little shocked.

"Nothing."

An uncomfortable silence hung around us for a moment. His face was solemn, his eyes fixed warily upon mine. I held his gaze unwaveringly – I would never give up a chance to look in his eyes, not ever again.

"I… don't remember much either," he admitted. "Just a woman's face."

I waited for him to tell me more on his own, but when he offered no explanations, my curiosity got the better of me. "Who was she, Grimmjow?" I prompted softly.

"My mother, I think," he replied.

That surprised me – I had expected him to say his lover, or even his wife. Not a mother. We lay in silence for a long minute, letting his words and the implications they brought hang in the air. I had no comment for him; I could not imagine having a mother. I had been brought to this being by Aizen, and that was all that I knew. Before that, I had been a hollow, yes, and I had memories of that. I knew I must have been human once upon a time. But it was all in theory, now. Those memories had slipped away, after years and years of nothing but being a hollow.

He must treasure that image dearly, was all I could think. I was not much one for sentimental things; but a mother, a real, human mother was different. It meant that he, too, had once been human. And that made him so much more real, so much more breakable. He was more than just an empty shell of a soul. His heart was not dead and useless, the way mine had become. Perhaps from him my heart could learn to work again.

"What is this, Ulquiorra?" he asked, breaking the silence with barely more than a whisper.

"This?" I asked in return. "I don't know. It was hatred. Then obsession." I paused to gather my thoughts as best I could. "Now, I simply don't know."

"I think you do know," he insisted.

"No," I said. "I think it could _become_ that. But that isn't what it is right now."

"Then what are we, exactly?" he demanded.

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On whether you still want me or not."

His hand reached out slowly, his rough, calloused fingertips brushing against my cheek. "I want you more than you know," he whispered.

"Then that's what we are," I said. "We want each other. That's all."

"And this can go on?"

"Yes. This can go on."

"That's good," he said, and then leaned forward and kissed me. It wasn't so strange, now, being kissed by him, but it was no less thrilling. Each kiss was different than the last, but there would never be a kiss like that first one. Never would I be so shocked again. Never would I be so confused. Never would I be left wondering why he had kissed me. That kiss had meaning to it. The same meaning which would be in every kiss that followed. Only now, I knew what it was.

He was mine. It was finally true. He _was_ mine, and I was his. I watched as he rose from the bed and dressed in silence, retrieving his wrinkled clothing from the floor. We didn't know what would happen to us after this. We didn't know where this relationship, if that's what we were calling it, would take us. It could kill us – literally. It could tear us away from each other. Or it could bring us closer to being human than either of us had felt in a long time.

My dead heart pounded uselessly in my chest as I watched him turn to leave, as he pulled the door open. "Grimmjow," I called after him, a small panic rising in my chest.

He turned back to me with a smirk. "That's _sexta_," he corrected. "Gotta keep up appearances, after all."

And with that, he was gone.

* * *

Hi John!


End file.
